Pfeff: “Toothpaste!”
George: “Okay, let’s see. You have a baby and you need to change its diaper…”
Yardley: “George. The baby one is the same as the dog one.”
George: “No, no. It’s totally different.”
Yardley: “You can’t do the same poop joke over and over.”
George: “If it makes Carrie laugh or break into speech, then it counts for the game. That’s the only measure.”
Yardley: “Disagree. Then we could just be having a Make Carrie Laugh contest.”
“Sausage,” I say, very seriously.
“You have to mix up the poop jokes with other things,” says Yardley. “Otherwise they lose their tang.”
“Artichokes!” yells Pfeff, as if he has just thought of the most brilliant thing.
I laugh.
Pfeff swims closer to me as the others continue the game. His hair is wet and there are water droplets on his cheekbones. He comes so close I could kiss him, easily.
“I made you laugh,” he whispers. “You have to admit it.”
32.
LATER, AS I’M heading to bed, I pass the open door to Penny’s room. She and Erin are passed out on Penny’s twin beds, an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. I think about leaving them there, but I know Tipper will walk by the room on her way upstairs.
I shake them gently till they wake and make them clean their teeth and drink tall glasses of water. I give them each two Tylenol. They drink and swallow obediently, and when they try to flop back onto their beds in their clothes, I pull pajamas from Penny’s dresser and make them change. “I don’t even wear pajamas normally,” Penny argues, slurring her words. “I wear a tank top and my underwear. Mother’s going to know something’s up.”
“Be a credit to the family and wear the pajamas,” I tell her.
“I looked at Mother’s secret photograph,” she says.
“Shush, Penny.” I don’t want her talking about that in front of Erin.
“You wanted to know what I think! You wouldn’t have told me about it otherwise,” says Penny, slinging her arm around my shoulder.
“Be quiet.”
“I think it’s Daddy in the picture,” Penny goes on. “And I think she scrapes a little piece of his face off every time she’s mad at him, because he’s so bossy. So it’s like, she goes up there and gets it from the hiding place and goes scrape scrape scrape. It’s how she gets her fury out.”
“It’s not Harris,” I say. Though it might be.
“She has like a ritual for how she gets back at him, like when he doesn’t pay attention to her.”
“That’s not even the same as what you said before.”
“Think about it.” She yanks off her shirt and bra, buttoning the striped cotton PJ top over her naked body. “You happy?”
“Pajama pants, as well,” I say. “Be good.”
“Mother should see a psychiatrist,” says Penny, falling onto the bed once her pajama pants are on. “It’s not normal to scratch out your husband’s face.”
“You are unbalanced right now,” I say.
“Me?” she says. “I’m not the one high on pills all the time.”
I freeze.
I didn’t know she knew about the pills.
I didn’t think anyone knew about the pills.
“That’s not true,” I say.
“Yes it is,” she says. “Now go away. Erin and I are very fatigued and also drunk. So bye.”
33.
DESPITE THE LATE nights, Major and Pfeff, sometimes with George and Yardley, have begun taking Guzzler out very early. Not every day, but pretty often. I find out a couple nights after we play the sausage game, because Major invites me. “You coming to the Early Morning?” he asks.
“What’s that?”
It is after dinner and Major is sitting next to me on the big blue couch in Goose. On his lap is a large bowl of pretzels mixed with Lucky Charms. His arms are skinny and sunburned. His black jeans have holes in them. “We go out in the boat in the morning with coffee,” he says. “We swim and commune with nature.”
Pfeff is on the floor in front of me. He is wearing George’s seersucker blazer and a U2 T-shirt, plus Nantucket-red shorts. He has been making merciless fun of the movie (Mary Poppins) and also singing along and making up his own lyrics.
Kill your elders! Step in time.
Wag your weenie! Step in time.
Take no prisoners, do some crimes.
Know your math facts! Step in time.
Stuff like that.
“We go very gently and slowly,” he says now, about the early-morning boat ride. “Because of our hangovers. But it really is maximum beauty.”
Major nods. “Gently and slowly is the kind of boat ride I need.”
“I learned to make coffee,” puts in George, who is squashed into a big armchair with Yardley. A couple of weeks on-island have relaxed his style—his red plaid shorts look worn and dirty. His hair is no longer the crisply cut beige cap it used to be. “We swim, or just laze around. I used to go fishing with my dad, you know? It’s like that. We get a jump on the day, doing nature stuff.”
“I didn’t want to go at first,” says Pfeff. “But now I’m into it.”
“That’s why they like, all have to pass out after lunch,” teases Yardley. “You come into Goose, and Pfeff’s like, snoring on the couch. Major’s asleep in the lounge chair. And George is facedown on the bed with his shoes still on.”
“I sleep very cutely,” says George. “It’s a documented fact. So there’s nothing to make fun of.”
“You could come tomorrow,” says Pfeff, to me. He turns and looks at me hopefully. “It would be fun to have you.” He smiles and I can’t take my eyes from the soft curve of his lower lip.
“You could, too,” Major says to Penny and Erin. They have just joined us after their “walk-and-talk.”
“Ugh, early morning anything is not my idea of fun,” says Erin.
I don’t like Pfeff, but I want to kiss him again. I want to feel clever and impressive, to stroke my fingers along his warm neck. I remember the healing thrill of his kiss, like cold water and raspberries, dispelling the taint of my malformed, infected jaw. I’d like to feel that again.
He’s just said he wants me there, in the early morning. Me, especially.
“I’ll go,” I say. “What the hell. Tell me what time.”
34.
IT IS 6:15 a.m. No one is awake in Goose Cottage.
I call hello, but there is no answer.
I have already had coffee with my mother and Luda, but still, I put on the coffee maker in the guesthouse, mostly to have something to do.
I feel young and overeager, being there on time. Maybe they didn’t mean today.
The coffee machine finishes its cycle. I pour some into a mug and add milk and sugar. I skim a newspaper from four days ago.
Eventually, Pfeff wanders in, shirtless, rubbing his eyes like a child. His pajama bottoms are low on his hips. “Hey, Carrie. Morning,” he says. “Oooh, coffee. I’m so happy now. Did you make it?”
“Yah-huh.”
“That’s big-time excellent.”
I can’t stop looking at him. I hate him, but I also wish he’d just come close to me, lean in and touch my hair. Maybe he’d whisper, “Can I kiss you? I really want to kiss you,” and I’d kiss him for an answer. I could run my hands down his strong back and touch his gently freckled shoulders. I’d feel his lips on mine, so gentle but also urgent, and he’d taste of black coffee.
I could go to him, I think, shaking myself. I don’t have to wait.
But I cannot tell how he’d respond.
Maybe he’s with Sybelle, wrapped up in the drama of their reunion.
Maybe he thinks I’m just a kid, a foolish girl who threw a tantrum over nothing, over a short wait.
Maybe he didn’t like kissing me at all.
So I do nothing.
I don’t stare at
his naked chest or
his strong hands around the coffee cup. I don’t look at his cheekbones outlined in morning sunlight or
the way the muscles of his shoulders ripple when he pulls open the fridge.
I pay no attention to
the way he folds a piece of toast around a hunk of cheese and eats it hungrily, how he likes to lift his coffee cup with both hands, how he sucks his finger when he burns his hand on his second piece of toast.
No attention.
* * *